Retribution: The Story of Sebastian Moran
by Neiraaa
Summary: Three years after the Fall, Sebastian Moran is determined to fulfill Jim's promise to Sherlock.


All of the characters belong to A.C.D and BBC. I should warn you, this is not a happy story. The rating is not just to be safe. Contains major character deaths, torture and implication of rape.

* * *

One thousand and eighty-eight days have passed since Sherlock Holmes took his life. Not that John Watson was counting. He was fine. Of course he was. He had to be.

John was smiling, laughing, and enjoying his life. Sherlock was just a figure in his past. He lost friends before and he made it through but he still couldn't bring himself to watch a single episode of House.

His act fooled no one. Everybody knew that he would never be the same man he once was. When his best friend jumped to his death from the roof of that hospital, a part of John died with him. In the end, he moved back to Baker Street. It was his home. At least the closest thing he had to it since that awful day.

There was one thing that kept him sane. "Believe in Sherlock Holmes" was an online campaign he started in honor of his best friend. Although a decade has passes in internet time, people were still active in their mission to prove to the world that Sherlock Holmes was a real genius. He solved crimes mostly for his own entertainment, but Sherlock helped so many people get the answers they needed. Family and friends of the victims whose murders he solved will forever be grateful to him. There were those who thought that he was the one behind the deaths of theirs loved ones, but most of them knew the truth. Sadly, it was almost impossible to prove it. Moriarty wouldn't have killed himself if he wasn't sure that his plan was flawless.

As John was reading a post by Melissa Van Coon, his phone rang.

The caller was unidentified, but John knew exactly who it was. This was the tenth time he called in the last week.

-Hello.- he answered.

-Where is Sherlock Holmes?- asked a male voice from the other side.

-I told you already. He is dead.-

-Where is he? I know you must know. You are his closest friend.-

-He jumped of the roof and smashed on the pavement right in front of me! His brain was all over the street! I took his pulse! He's dead!-

-You really don't know?- teased the voice –That's cruel.-

-Don't know what?- asked John.

-I guess I'll just have to find another way to get his attention.- He hung up.

John didn't know what to think anymore. For months, he prayed to God every night hoping that Sherlock somehow survived that fall and he will come back, but then he realized that he has to move on. That type of thinking was pulling him deeper. He still believed in Sherlock Holmes, the best man he ever met, but now he was dedicated to save one thing that really mattered: His legacy. Not his reputation. Reputation is for those who are alive, and Sherlock didn't particularly care about it when he was one of them. He was a hero and John wanted the world to believe in him again.

He opened up his blog and wrote:

-I know I haven't updated this blog in a long time, but I just wanted to say that I still believe that my friend was a real hero. I will believe in him for the rest of my life. However, he ended his. To the person who has been calling me for the past week I just want to say that I too miss him and I will never forget the times we had and would have had, but he is dead. I don't know who you are, but if you need someone to talk to, just give me a call.-

Few minutes after he posted that, he saw a new comment.

-theimprobableone: You know nothing, John Watson. Holmes, if you're reading this, come out and play or I'll fulfill Jim's promise.-

* * *

The room was dark and covered with metal panels from floor to sealing. Three days have past since Molly Hooper last saw the sunlight. He was kind enough to tell her that. The first day, she thought she was dreaming. Maybe she would just wake up in her bed with Toby the cat scratching her. The first day was the easiest. Only few punches in the stomach and one broken rib. It wasn't nearly enough to make her talk.

-Jim really liked you. I would hate to kill the thing he liked as they are so rare.- He was always so polite, even when he was hurting her –But, if I have to, I will make you suffer for days and I will break you. You are a sweet little dove. I know how to do it.-

Day two was a the worst day of her life. Yet, she didn't crumble. He did things to her. Things she wouldn't want to see happening to her worst enemy. Broken arm and concussion were the least painful. When she was a mortician, she would often wondered how it must have felt for women whose body she exterminated to die in such a horrible way. Now she didn't have to wonder. She knew she would die, and she wasn't even looking forward to someone saving her. She just wanted it to end.

All the time, he talked about Jim. About how he saved his life and stated working for him when he was send to kill him. The story of two of them assassinating the prime minister of some god-forsaken country. The time Jim bought a pet crocodile.

-But, do you know what I hated the most about him?- he asked as he pulled him zipper back up –His obsession with Sherlock Holmes. He was like a fucking fangirl. And look at me now. I covered the walls of my bedroom with his pictures, just like he did.-

This was the day three. He woke her up with a slap across the face.

-Is my little dove ready to talk to me now?- he asked.

-Just kill me.- She spat at his face. He just wiped it and smiled at her.

-You know what I want, little dove. So just tell me and then I will make you wish come true. I would even let you go, but what would you do with your life now, damaged and scared like me? I underestimated you. There is a reason Holmes choose you to keep his secret. Tell me, my pretty- he said, touching her face with a gentle stroke of his silver blade. It hurt like hell, but she wouldn't make a sound -Where is Sherlock Holmes?-

-I will never say.- she said. Her torturer kept smiling.

-We'll see about that. You may not be the gentle, little breakable angel I thought you to be, but I have broken tougher men than you are. I have my methods of convincing people.- His knife sliced through the skin on her face.

12 hours later, Molly Hooper, almost drained of her blood, with all of her nails pulled out with a rusty tweezers and her skin peeled off from large portion of her body, finally cracked.

-Paris.- she said -I don't know anything else. Please, please stop it.- she pleaded. The blue eyes of Sebastian Moran were the last thing she ever saw as he put his gun against her head and said:

-Now, was that so hard?-

* * *

A letter was delivered to a small apartment in a worst part of Paris that day. Sherlock Holmes, the man who occupied that apartment didn't get to read it. Instead, a bodyguard hired by his brother burned it to ashes.

-He can't know about this. If he sees the letter or finds out what's happening, it will be on your head.- he made himself clear.

-But they will die!- the faceless minor protested.

-They will die whether he shows up or not. We are not dealing with someone who can be negotiated with. I will not lose him. He can't help them, but he can get himself killed. If he dies, I swear, your body will never be found.- Mycroft Holmes hung up. The man had no other choice but to burn the letter written in blood of Molly Hooper.

-One per day until you come home.-

* * *

After The Fall of Sherlock Holmes, Greg Lestarde fell out of grace too. He lost his job, his wife left him for good and took his children. And all because he didn't listen to his heart. He knew Sherlock was real. There wasn't a single part of his mind that doubted that fact, but it was too late now. Sherlock was dead, Moriarty was gone and his life was a wreck. This was the first time he saw his son in the last month. His older daughter refused to see him.

As he was sitting in the park, looking at little Tommy running about the green grass, he could almost feel the social worker watching him. His wife convinced the court that he was too dangerous to be trusted with his child on his own, but the social worker was an old friend. She let them have their privacy. Still, he felt watched.

-Daddy, daddy, look, I found a butterfly.- said Tommy as he ran towards the rapidly again man that was his father. Greg smiled.

-That's wonderful dear.- he replied -But you should put him back. We don't want him to...- He will never get to finish his sentence.

Greg Lestrade had a quick death. He was looking at his son, thinking that he was the only thing worth living for, as a custom-made bullet punctured his skull, killing him instantaneously. His son cried over his body for half an hour until someone bothered to call the police.

* * *

-You can't just buy them everything they want, mom.- said Amy Johnson to her mother Martha as they were walking out a shopping center, with the boys carrying bags full of new stuff.

-Oh, dear, they're my grandchildren. I can spoil them a little.- answerd Mrs. Hudson. Her two grandchildren didn't seem to mind all the new things their Nona had bought them.

-No, it's ok, let her spoil us.- said the older child, Steven -We can handle it. Can't we, Mark?-

-Of course we can. I wouldn't mind if we did this more often.-

-I swear to you, if they start expecting new phones every month, I will send them to live with you.- They were all waiting for Martha to open the car doors.

-They're good kids. They know they can't have ...- At that moment, she unlocked the car. There was a small "click" and then they were gone. The car blew up and took with itself the lives of Martha Hudson, her daughter and her two grandchildren. They didn't even have bodies to burry.

* * *

Sherlock Holmes was not a happy man. Under the house arrest in the small, messy apartment in Paris, the boredom was the least of his worries. There was something going on. He knew it. Mycroft cut his internet connection, saying something about unexpected repairs and his phone stopped working. He wasn't able to call anyone. Not that he had many names in his phonebook these days. He was a good boy and he listened to his brother. Mycroft knew the best.

His phone rang for the first time in weeks. Sherlock jumped and answered it quickly.

-I expected you to show up.- said a strange, cold voice on the other side of the line.

-Why? Who are you?- asked Sherlock.

-I've killed two of them, there's only one left. I thought you cared. Do you, Mr. Holmes? Do you care about your little pet?- teased the voice.

-What are you talking about?- The voice laughed.

-Didn't you big brother tell you they're dead? I'm here to finish what Jim started. Oh, Sherly, Sherly, my boy. You have until tomorrow at midnight. I'll be waiting for you at 221B Baker Street. Be there, or John dies. Just like they all did.-

There was no power in the world that could have stopped Sherlock now. He couldn't let this happen. Anyone, but John. He was the one who truly mattered. The last time Sherlock died for John, but he would never forgive himself if it was vice versa.

* * *

Baker Street was unusually empty for that time of night. It was barely 11 in the evening and the street was abandoned. Somehow, most of the people who usually took that route felt the strange need to avoid it that particular night. Like they felt what was happening at 221.

John sat tied up in his chair. His face was covered in bruises and his arm was bent in an unnatural angle. Sebastian Moran, the second most dangerous man in London sat in Sherlock's old chair. He was a tall and blonde man whose face was covered in numerous old scars. He looked like he lost his mind. His blue eyes were bloody and he smelled like cigarettes and booze. There was an aura of madness surrounding him. Not the same kind his boss had. Jim was a man who was born mad, but Moran looked like someone who cracked. It seemed that John handled the loss of his best friend better than Sebastian did.

-Jim would have come for me ten times now. Do you think he'll show up? Will your hero come and rescue you?- he asked. At that moment, the doors opened and Sherlock Holmes walked into the room.

Sherlock saw the fear and the pain in John's eyes and wanted, like he never wanted anything in his life, to hurt the person who did this to his friend. Moran smiled at the sight of his enemy.

-Well, if it isn't the great Sherlock Holmes! How kind of you to finally grace us with your presence.- Moran said and stood up, waving a bottle of whiskey in one and a gun in the other hand -I don't usually do these kind of things in person, but I wanted to see your face when your best friend dies because of you.-

-Moran, be smarter than your boss. This is over.- He took out his gun.

-I have to disagree. He did give you a choice. Either you die or your friends do. You tricked us three years ago, but not today. Lestrade and Hooper are dead. I enjoyed killing them. Sweet Molly begged me to end her life. I'm a merciful man so I did what she asked, after I had some fun. She was already half dead by the time I was done with her. Your inspector friend had a quick death. I didn't see Hudson die, but I've heard it was quite a pretty explosion. Your brother will have a cake spiced with cyanide for dinner and Johnny boy is the only one left.- He smiled, staring at Sherlock's shaking hands

–That's the difference between you and him. If you pulled a gun at my head and than talked about all the people who you've killed, Jim would have shot you ten times by now. Did he care about me more than you care about your pet?-

-Don't pull them into this. This is between you and me.- Sherlock said in a firm voice, knowing that this stopped being about Jim and him the second he blew his brains out.

-Don't even try to wit me to death like Jim. He was a drama queen, cared for style, but I only care about revenge.- Before Sherlock could even react, Moran had already shot John in the stomach. Sherlock didn't say a word, but only pulled his trigger, shooting him in the chest.

-I knew I was going to die. I don't give a fuck. I was already dead. But he will die in pain and in the end you will lose. I guess villains sometimes do win.- said Moran. Sherlock stood over his dying body and pointed his gun at his head. There was a loud "bang" and Sebastian Moran left this world with a smile on his face.

Sherlock ran to John, untied him and put him on the floor.

-Sherlock… Is that really you?- John asked. He sounded weak, defeated.

-It's me, John. I'm not dead. I was just pretending.- John's eyes were filled with tears. He would have yelled, but he didn't have the strength.

-I had to bury you.- he said –Do you know how that felt?-

-I don't and I don't want to find out.- He took his phone out –There's been a shooting at 221B Baker Street. 35-year-old male with a severe abdominal wound. Please hurry up.- he said.

-I'm sorry John. Everything I did was to protect you and I failed. But you're going to make it.- he assured John –You have to. Don't do this to me, old friend.-

-I'll be dead by the time they get here.- said John –I know a fatal wound when I see one. Moran knew what he was doing.-

-This is all my fault. I tried to protect you. I ran away so you could be safe.-

-Don't blame yourself. At least I got to see you one more time.- said John. Sherlock's face was wet with tears, but John kept a strong act. The pain he experienced was like no other. He felt his soul leaving his body, but he knew that pain was only temporary. The one who will really hurt is Sherlock. He is the one left behind. That pain never goes away and John knew that better than anybody else did.

-Sherlock, you have to run.- he said.

-No, I'm not leaving you here all alone.-

-There is nothing you can do to help me. I'm a dead man. If the police realizes you're alive, you will go to prison for all of Moriarty's crimes. I know you are real, but no one can prove it.-

-I can't leave you here to die.-

-I will faint in a matter of seconds. After that, I won't feel a thing. It would be a lot easier for me if I knew that you were safe.- He took his hand.

-But John…-

-Please, Sherlock. Do it for me.- Sherlock gathered the last bits of courage and strength he had and stood up.

-I'm sorry, my old friend.- he said –I really am.-

-Goodbye Sherlock.- John murmured.

When he was already at the door, Sherlock turned around.

-John… I …- He never finished his sentence because John Watson fell asleep for the last time.

Wiping tears from his face, Sherlock Holmes ran away as the sound of police sirens became louder.

He tried to call his brother, but there was no reply. His assistant Sydney found him in his office. He was dead, but smiling at the sight of a half-eaten chocolate cupcake in front of him. With his demise, Sherlock was left alone in the world.

At the crime scene, forensics found a footage that proved that Sherlock Holmes was alive and countless other evidences that proved that he was a criminal mastermind. He was witnessed leaving the flat minutes before the police and the paramedics arrived. The deaths of John Watson, Sebastian Moran, Mycroft Holmes, Molly Hooper, Greg Lestrade, Martha Hudson and her family were attributed to him and so were the murders of Richard Brook, Eddie Van Coon and Bryan Lucas, 12 tenants of the building that collapsed, kidnapping of 5 innocent civilians as well as Claudette and Max, and many other crimes. In the eyes of the whole world, the massacre at Baker Street was a way for him to get rid of the last few loose ends of his criminal organization.

Sherlock Holmes was the most wanted man in the world. Millions of pounds were offered for his head. Even the people who knew he was innocent didn't dare to help him. He was despised by the world, all alone, wandering the globe, looking for salvation.

For years, police offices all around the world would sometimes receive messages about cases they were working on. All of them were signed with SH and they always lead to the killer.

In the end, there was no winner. Moriarty, Moran and Watson were dead and Sherlock Holmes became a shadow of a man, the loneliest creature in existence, waiting for the day when he will join them.

From time to time, people saw a tall, tired man, wearing an old coat with the collar turned up, standing at the grave of John Watson for a minute or two and then leaving. After that, they would always find a note on the grave saying:

-I am sorry.-

The story of the White Knight, as they called him, became a part of the local folklore. No one knew who he was or where he was coming from, but three times every year he would come to the grave. No one had the heart to disturb him in his sadness. They watched him as he grow older every year, his hair turning gray, his body becoming weaker.

Seventy years later, the White Knight didn't show up. He was never seen again. Next to the grave of John Watson, its resting place found a body of a man named Sherlock Holmes. His gravestone said:

-In death finally reunited.-


End file.
